The sky blackened with rolling clouds, and Sansa felt the first drops of rain on her face. It was cold rain, cooled by the wintery weather, and far from welcome. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together.
Why, she thought. The cold and the hunger is enough. Now…this. She felt her own warm tears mingle with the skys.
Sansa stood alone on what was once a well worn road. Now it was merely a smudge of mud, a dark scar surrounded by bleak, empty fields decorated by scrub. It was a desolation, but the scenery was by now familiar. Everywhere she had gone since fleeing the Vale was the same. Burnt, ruined….empty.
Like me, she thought.
For all her life, Sansa had always believed in the stories. In happy endings, in the truth of right and wrong, in knights and songs and tourneys. In white cloaks. Now she felt that all she had to look forward to was pain, pain and powerlessness. Since that say she had left Winterfell, she had been but a pawn in others' games.
And the one time she had decided enough, it was time to act, to grab her chance and flee, it had been her worst mistake. I was a fool, she thought. She pushed her dampening hair back from her eyes. If Arya were here, she'd know how to make shelter. How to light a fire. All I have are stories.
But still, Sansa still took another step, and another…
Later, after the rain had passed and the moon rose higher, she felt the temperature dip further, and the burr of frost begin to form on the passing trees. Her stomach gripped with pain, its third day empty. She had a hunger so savage it stripped her of any wherewithal against the cold, and her heart, also starving, struggled to find courage. She was weakening, she knew. If she found no food or shelter soon…
Perhaps this is the end, she thought dully. And then, a shiver of fear. No. Please.
Slowing her walk, Sansa turned her mind back to those last few days with Petyr. She remembered those cool eyes regarding her, always looking, staring. Then his hands…
I had to get away. I had no choice. I –
Suddenly, her ankle gave away under her, causing her to stagger and fall. Icy water and mud splashed around her as she landed heavily on her side. A sharp pain ran up her leg, causing her to cry out. For a moment, she just lay there, allowing the icy puddle water below her to seep into her clothing, soaking what was already damp, freezing what was already so very, very cold. But the wolf stirred again, and she slowly pushed herself to sit, pulling her leg around to inspect her leg.
The ankle was already swelling, she saw. Her heart sank further still, and then, the tears returned. She placed her hands to her face and sobbed, her body bending over itself in the mud and ice, shuddering with the force of her hopelessness, with her pain, with her loss.
After a time, she felt she had no more tears to cry, but she also could not seem to rouse herself to rise and try to walk. Perhaps… I should rest. Leaning over herself, she pushed her arms out in front of her, and closed her eyes. She imagined herself a puppet, a puppet with her strings finally cut, crumpled and lifeless on the ground.
Then she felt the dreams arrive. No longer could she feel the cold and hunger in her body, but instead a warmth started to envelop her, a welcoming, peaceful warmth. She remembered Winterfell, and Old Nan, and lemon cakes, and all the things she had loved so much.
She felt her body move backwards, floating as it moved, allowing her to gaze up at a bright, starry sky. A figure then loomed over her, hooded and shadowed, but she was unafraid. "I know you," she murmured, as she closed her eyes.
When Sansa awoke, it was to a bright sunlit room, and she lay in a small but comfortable bed, warm and safe. For a moment she had to reach to remember where she had been, where she had come from. When she moved and felt the pain in her ankle, she remembered.
As she stirred, and became aware of a shrouded woman sat by a crackling fire to her left. The woman had been knitting, but had stopped, and was now regarding Sansa with kind, gentle eyes.
"Where…..where am I?," Sansa asked, her voice raw against her throat. "Who…"
"Quiet, child, and save your energy," replied the woman, laying her knitting aside and rising to move towards the bed. As she rose Sansa saw she wore garb similar to the Silent Sisters, but it was white, and her smile suggested a soul that spoke to the gods of life, not of death.
"You're at the Quiet Isle, my lady, a refuge for many. I'm Sister Beatrice, and at your service til you are recovered. Now, are you hungry?"
She reached out a hand and touched Sansa's arm as she spoke, and for a moment the sun touched her sleeve, showing a delicate embroidery dedicated to The Mother.
Sansa looked up at her, her eyes filling with tears, "How….."
"Elder Brother will be along to explain all, child. Trust for now that you are safe, and warm, and soon to be fed, and among friends," She moved away then, and made towards a dark, ornate wooden door, her robes gliding noiselessly behind her feet. As she opened the door, she turned again, and smiled, "Bread and cheese?"
Sister Beatrice was as good as her word, returning swiftly with food and two other Sisters carrying a bath and pails of steaming hot water. As Sansa ate they filled the bath, placing it next to the fire, and filling it with scented oils that smelled of lavender and camomile.
Gently, they then lifted her from the bed, removing a nightdress of white cotton, and slipped her into the water. As they did so she looked down at her body – bruised and bony, her ankle swollen and red, but she was complete, and very much alive. Wordlessly, they cleaned her and washed her hair, stripping it of the dark dye so that it filled the water around her.
Finally, they wrapped her in a warm robe, and sat her by the fire with a glass of warm milk.
A knock at the door was then quickly answered, and following the murmuring of voices, Sansa saw a man enter the room, dressed in robes but of an earthy brown. He was a tall man, with a large, shaven head, shrewd eyes, a veined, red nose, and a heavy jaw.
As he walked towards her, the sisters quickly pulled another chair from the corner, and placed it opposite Sansa for the man to seat himself. Then, the two sisters disappeared, carrying the bath pail with them, although Sister Beatrice stayed, seating herself quietly on Sansa's bed like a lady-in-waiting.
She must have seen the uncertainty then in Sansa's eyes. "Lady Sansa, this is our Elder Brother, and can answer your questions," she said. "By The Mother, you are safe, as you are with the God's servants here."
Sansa looked at the Brother, noting his kindly face, but a voice in her head reminded her of kindly faces in the past. Kindly faces shielding desires for her claim, for her name, for her kiss….
"Forgive me, brother," she said at last, cautiously. "I'm Sansa of House Stark. Something you appear to know…."
The older man's lips pressed together before he spoke. "You have Lord Clegane to thank for that. He has told us much about you these past months. It was he that found you, and carried you thus."
Sansa's heart skipped a beat at his name, and her confusion must have been plain to see, for the Brother quickly continued. "We found him too, many moons past, broken and bleeding in the road. We brought him here, to gather himself, to repair and renew. But his heart was always set on finding you. It took him but two months to do it."
"A dog….. has fine tracking skills," Sansa said stupidly, though her mind was elsewhere. The Hound….was alive? Was here? She turned her head instinctively to gaze towards a large window on the opposite side of the bedroom.
"He's no dog. No more," said the Brother, firmly. "So, I hope you realise that Clegane, for all his past misdeeds, would never put you in harms way. So you are safe enough with us. I know you have been though much, and no doubt will suffer more before the game of Thrones is done. But for now, you are safe, and safe to plan your future as you recover your strength. Stay, or leave, as you will."
Sansa had no words to say, and her mouth hung open as she struggled to understand. Finally, the Brother stood, came towards her, and offered her an arm. "Come,' he said, gently. "Let me show you."
Sansa rose unsteadily, but leaning on the Brother she allowed him to lead her towards the tall glass window, where a beautiful island view appeared before her, bathed in a bright winter sunlight. Busy brothers and sisters milled around below in a cobbled yard, and closely behind rose a undulating graveyard. Further still she saw the sea, creating a wall of water between the Isle and the mainland. The sun sparkled off the water.
As her eyes adjusted, she spied upon the graveyard a figure she recognised. Stripped to the waist, Sandor Clegane was digging, his hands tightly gripping the shovel and he heaved soil from the ground. His hair was now short, cropped closely to his head, and he looked leaner, but he was unmistakable with his size and scarred face. Although wisps of snow were falling, she could see steam rising from his body as he repeatedly stabbed at the ground.
"I had hoped he might join us," said the Brother. "But after six months as a novice, it was clear the Gods were not to be his redemption. Instead, I fear, that is a task that sits on your shoulders,"
He turned his head to look at her with serious, steady eyes. "He is sick with love for you. Whether it be brotherly or no, I couldn't say, but there is a force within him now that drives him to protect you come what may. He tracked you to the Vale, and then, on hearing of your escape, followed you at a distance until he could bear no more."
Sansa turned her eyes again back to the window. "He saved me. But…he stole a song," she whispered.
"Yes," said the Brother, quietly. "I know. But a song that killed the Hound, or helped to drive him out. The Hound was a vicious child built on pain and violence, with no-one to love and nothing to live for save the death of his brother. Sandor Clegane gave a young woman a cloak and with it his heart. The Hound had to die in order for Clegane to live. Do you understand?"
Sansa turned back to the Brother with comprehension in her eyes. "But what…. what if I don't love him?" she asked. "Will the Hound return?"
The Elder Brother reached up and cupped her face in his hands. "The Hound is dead and buried. What Sandor becomes now is his affair and his choice. But do not fear him, I beg you. He will never harm you, as to harm you is to harm himself. Do not drive him away though, please…" The Brother looked at her, imploringly. "At least not yet. Not until you know your mind and your future. Until then, he is here for you, and will do and go wherever you bid, of that I am certain."